


next time

by rcmsw



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Post Punisher season 1, Slow Burn, kastle - Freeform, pre Daredevil season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rcmsw/pseuds/rcmsw
Summary: “Hey,” he hears in that voice he knows well now, that voice that is, well, something.Frank turns to see Karen there in the doorway, standing out against the dingy walls and muted colors.“Hey,” he responds, and feels the smile tug at his lips. He can’t help it. He’s not surprised she managed to find him here, she’s a damn good journalist after all.





	1. Chapter 1

As the session wraps, Frank sits for a moment, trying to come back to the world around him. When he does, he heads straight for the coffee. It’s crap, and even worse cold, but it’s better than nothing.

“Hey,” he hears in that voice he knows well now, that voice that is, well, something.

Frank turns to see Karen there in the doorway, standing out against the dingy walls and muted colors.

“Hey,” he responds, and feels the smile tug at his lips. He can’t help it. He’s not surprised she managed to find him here, she’s a damn good journalist after all.

“I’m uh, sorry to bug you here,” and though she’s smiling too, he realizes she’s a little uncomfortable. Not with him, or this place, but the context. She doesn’t want to invade uninvited into this aspect of his life.

“It’s alright,” he says, because it is. “And um, I’m sorry I haven’t been by. Hope you weren’t too worried about me.”

“It’s alright,” she says, because it is. “Madani filled me in, more or less, about what happened at the park so I knew you at least weren’t dead.”

She lets out a little laugh, just a breath, before she turns serious again. Maybe because he could have died. Maybe because she’s still worried he died a long time ago.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, but can’t quite finish the sentence. There’s still too much to unpack there - Russo, his family, the kids.

“I’m sorry, Frank -” she bites her lip after saying his name, though they’re now standing close enough that others probably can’t hear their conversation. He’s distracted by the motion, the way it pulls back a small section of chapped lip, before it returns to is previous fullness.  
“I’m sorry about what happened with Russo,” and she looks at him not with pity, but real understanding. “I know he was your friend.”

“I thought he was.”

“That’s not on you,” she tells him, meeting his eyes with that stubborn gaze, her words insistent. That Karen, she’d make a believer out of anybody.

He nods once, twice, and then changes the subject.

“What’s with the get up?” he asks, nodding towards her jeans, t-shirt and boots, a far cry from her usual professional weekday attire. She rolls with the change of conversation, giving him the break he needs.

“I’m heading out on assignment. Today, actually,” she adjusts the bag on her shoulder and smiles again, more of a grin, and he can see the excitement there.

“Where to?” With Karen, excitement can mean trouble.

“Syria. Manbij to start, but we’ll see where the story takes me,” she answers. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so I wanted to come see you first.”

“Be careful,” he breathes, because it’s the first thing he can think.

“I will be,” she promises him, seeing the genuine concern.

“You get letters?” he asks, after a beat.

“Huh?”

“On assignment, will you be able to get letters? Even in Kandahar we managed to get a few, late as hell, but they made it,” he’s saying more than he needs to, and still not getting to the point.

“Yeah, I should be able to get letters.” She meets his gaze, and raises her eyebrows.

“Good, I’ll write you.” He speaks the words with more confidence then he feels, wondering if she’d want to get a letter from him. He’s not sure what he’d even write, but he doesn’t like the thought of going so long without communicating with her again.

“I might have service, every once in a while, too,” she adds, less hesitant after his own proposal. “I could call you.”

“You do that.” More than her words, he’ll have her voice too. He shouldn’t be surprised by how much the idea comforts him.

She hesitates for a moment, not sure if she wants to say more, before eying the space left between them. With a quick decision, she hugs him again, like she did in her apartment, but this time he sees it coming. Now he does not hesitate to wrap his arms around her, to bury his head in her shoulder. He grips her tight, neither of them wanting to let go.

When they do break apart it’s slowly, their heads skimming by each other. He can feel the warmth of her cheek against his own, the softness of her skin against his growing stubble. Her breath, ragged and warm, traces along his jaw and over his lips. They pause together like that for a moment, still so close but not yet touching, before she finally steps back.

“I better get going, but I’ll guess I’ll talk to you soon, Frank,” she smiles at him again, that soft smile, and then she’s gone.

He watches her leave, and then stares at the spot she was just moments ago. He can almost still feel her closeness, like she’s somehow still there with him.

“Shit.” he breathes, rolling his head back and exhaling at the ceiling. He turns to Curtis, who’s come up beside him. “I should have kissed her.”

“Yeah you idiot, you should have.” 


	2. Chapter 2

_ Pete, _

_ Still not sure how I feel about that. It’s weird to write, but I guess it’s better to be safe? I got here yesterday, and I’m getting my feel for the territory. Not much time to settle - you just have to jump right in. Of course, I don’t mind that.  _

_ I hope everything is staying settled in New York.  _

_ What else do people say in letters? This feels so formal. I can’t remember the last time I actually wrote one of these. I do have my laptop and an unreliable internet connection, so email may be an option too. That’s electronic mail, by the way. Ask David about it, he’ll set you up. _

_ Talk to you soon. _

_ Karen _

 

 

_ Karen, _

_ I know what email is. Jesus, lady, I’m not that out of touch.  _

_ I did get David to set it up for me, but just because I didn’t feel like dealing with it myself. We can use that for some quicker conversations. I’m still good with the letters though. I like seeing the handwriting, there’s just something about it, you know?  _

_ Take care, _

_ Frank _

  
  


 

_ Frank, _

_ I know. Keep the letters coming. _

_ Karen _

 

\------

 

She writes letters to him when she’s in the thick of it - scrawled out in the same notepad where she keeps all of her notes for her stories. Emails are sent out as quick communication, the way they would text if she was home — her random thoughts as she’s finishing a story (one of the only times she has internet access), his as he goes about his days, now as Pete. He has more access of course, which means she usually logs in to find several from him at once, filling up her inbox with his musings. She reads through them from the beginning, smiling at every one. 

He only loses his mind a couple times, when the emails go unanswered and letters take too long to arrive. The fears are assuaged by short emails - “I'm sorry, I’m safe” - followed by long letters, pages of her words carrying comfort to him. She knows he worries. 

When he can’t read the words she writes to him, he latches on to her article. The sight of her byline is comforting, knowing the story on that page was crafted by her, that she is speaking, even if its not directly to him. 

 

\------

 

_ Karen,  _

_ It’s quiet around here. I’m still not quite sure what to do with all this. This quiet, this time, this life, I guess. I’m working again. And going to Curtis’s groups. They help. Though I hold back a bit with some of the more gruesome details. I think some, well maybe most, of the guys know who I am anyways. They’re not stupid. But they accept me as Pete. Even if that’s not who I am. Not really. _

_ At least, I don’t think so.  _

_ Frank _

  
  
  


 

_ Frank, _

_ I know it may not seem like it, but you’re moving in the right direction. You’ll find your new place, I’m confident in that. Don’t put too much stock in the name, Pete or Frank, just be who you are. Personally, I’m a fan.  _

_ Karen _

 

\------

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: Hey

 

Why are movies all sequels and remakes these days?

Frank

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From:kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: RE:Hey

 

Because no one’s bought the rights to your story yet. 

Or maybe we’re just getting old. 

Karen

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: RE:RE: Hey

 

Fuck that. 

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From: kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hey

 

Seriously.

 

\------

 

_ Frank, _

 

_ I would kill a man for a slice of pizza right now. Even the crappy stuff from the place down the street from me. You remember that? I’m literally having dreams about it. That is the first thing I’m doing when I get home. Forget family or friends or sleep — food is what’s important.  _

_ I guess I’m missing the city in general right now. The noise of it. I mean, it’s noisy here but it’s different. More intense, less familiar. I miss the sound of home. I miss hearing those little snippets of people’s lives - their favorite TV show playing, a friend calling up to someone’s window to be buzzed in, even the arguments, at least the tame ones. That soundtrack was comforting, I thought of it all like background music.  _

_ Enjoy it for me.  _

_ Karen _

 

He lets out a laugh, silent and half-finished, at that last line. Of course Karen would find some sort of beauty in the storm of New York noise. The paper of her letter is smooth and soft as he brushes his calloused fingers over her words and takes a look around the park. Laughing at himself, he closes his eyes, settles in on the bench, and does as he’s told. 

Three weeks and a few letters and emails later, Karen gets a package stuffed full of pizza rolls, surrounded by thawed ice packs. “Close enough,” a note reads, in a messy scrawl. She gets razzed about it for a week, but all she can do is smile, and pretend her cheeks aren’t so warm.

 

\------

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: ? 

 

Who’s that actor in that one movie? You know the one with the badass actress?

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From: kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: RE: ? 

 

Google, Frank, Google. 

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From: kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: RE: ? 

 

Tom Hardy. 

 

To:kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: RE: RE: ? 

 

Yes. Thank you. 

 

\------

 

To:kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

Eating pizza right now. It’s delicious. Cheesy and greasy and warm and delicious. 

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From:kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: 

 

Yeah yeah, rub it in asshole. 

 

\------

 

_ Karen, _

_ I tried that place you suggested. You’re right the coffee’s somehow always cold but the fries are worth it. We should go when you’re back, I think I might enjoy it more.  _

_ I started a new book, Murder on the Orient Express. It’s another one of Curtis’s. Apparently there’s a movie coming out soon, so Curtis told me to read it. I think it’s just going to make the movie suck by comparison. I’m sure you’ve read it, but I’ll wait to hear back before I talk about it. I don’t want to be the asshole who ruins it for you. _

_ Take care, _

_ Frank _

  
  


 

_ Frank, _

_ Told you so. This is why you should always listen to me. Always. Now find a way to ship those fries, still hot, and you’ll be my favorite person. I guess I can wait til I get back, but we’ll have to go straight there. I’ll be getting four orders, and a milkshake since the coffee sucks. _

_ See now I’m just daydreaming about food. Again. Thanks for that.  _

_ I’ve read it, so no need for spoiler alerts here. You’ll never guess who did it. Or actually, you probably will.  _

 

_ Karen _

 

\------

 

_ Frank, _

_ I got a whole stack of your letters today, must have been some sort of backlog. The timing was great though, I needed to hear from you. I didn’t realize how lonely it would be here. This is all a lot harder than I imagined.  _

_ Keep them coming. Please.  _

_ Karen _

 

\------

 

He’s ripped from a nightmare by a noise he can’t register at first. Frank takes several labored breaths, and has to push back the images of his dream before he realizes the noise is his phone. 

As he reaches for it he sees the time on the clock - 3:53 a.m., but as soon as he sees the caller ID on the phone screen he rushes to answer. 

“Hey,” he tries to whisper. It’s a comfort to see her name, the exact person who could ease his mind right now, as much as it is a concern that she’s calling at this hour. 

“Hey,” Karen responds, the way she always does, but her voice is raspy, the word broken as if it took a lot of effort to get out that one syllable. 

“Karen, what’s wrong?” he asks, verging on frantic. He’s painfully aware of the distance — thousands of miles separates him from her, from whatever protection he could give her. 

“I’m ok, I’m safe,” she blurts out quickly. He’s not sure when she started reading him so well, even so far away. “It was just a rough day.” 

“Shit,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face and leaning back in bed. “I’m sorry.”

The line is silent except for her short shallow breaths. 

Five thousand miles away, Karen pulls her arm tighter around herself in the dark. She nods at the sound of his voice, the softness there, but she doesn’t speak. 

“You want to talk about it?” 

She shakes her head this time, wishing he could just be there, that she didn’t have to rely on her words right now. 

“It’s not much compared to some of the shit you’ve been through,” she manages to get out, trying to take deep breaths. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”

He says the words in a way that’s just so him, so matter of fact, no room for argument. And she realizes that as much as she hadn't wanted to talk about it to anyone, she wants to tell him. Because it’s him, it’s Frank. 

So she tells him about the missile strike. She was two streets over when they hit. The ground shook beneath her and dust settled in her hair. After a beat, she moved, following the few others who ran toward the noise. She snapped photos as she went, capturing the destruction, the agony, the loss. She wrote down the cries of the injured, spoke to the survivors and the witnesses. The way she has before. 

It was different this time, because it wasn’t. Because she spoke to those who had lost everything and then turned away. She moved on, on to the next story. It was only when she returned back to write a few hours later that she realized how easy it had been. That now after all these weeks here, she was starting to be desensitized to it all. 

“I sat there and I listened and then I just left them and kept going. Talked to more people and then left them behind too,” she said. “And now instead of feeling for them and all that they’re dealing with, I’m focusing on my own guilt, my own stupid shit.” 

“So much for being all heart huh?” she forces a laugh, trying to push back into a more casual tone. 

“Yeah sounds about right, Karen,” Frank says, refusing to take on her attempt at levity. “You did your job, you’re there, telling their stories, shedding light on what’s happening,” he continues fervently, “And now you can’t sleep because you feel like you didn’t do enough, that you didn’t care enough. That’s a hell of a lot of heart, Karen.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

She pauses and lets his words sink in, trying to take them to heart. Then she realizes what time it is. 

“Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t think about the time difference, it’s late for you there.” 

“Technically ma’am, I think this is early,” he responds, and she can practically hear the grin spreading across his face. 

“I should let you go,” she says without meaning it.

“Nah, I’m already up, and I’ve got no place more important to be.” 

So they keep talking about random things - the work he’s managed to pick up, New York sports, books, the weather, Sarah and David and the kids, Curtis and group. Sometimes the conversation lulls, and the line goes silent, but neither one of them rushes to fill it. Both just enjoy the presence of each other, closing their eyes and pretending they’re closer. 

It’s not until the silence is filled with deeper breaths, followed by a soft thud, that he hangs up, grateful that she found her way to what he hopes is a peaceful sleep. He says something almost like a prayer that tonight, at least, no nightmares haunt her. He’ll take them himself if he has to. 

 

\------

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

Karen, 

Found a new apartment. It actually has some semblance of a kitchen, not just a microwave, and a bathroom of its own. You’d be impressed. 

-Frank

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

Have I ever mentioned that winter fucking sucks? -10 degrees with the windchill. Idiotic. I don’t mind cold, but this is a bit much. 

-Frank

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

David says hi.

-F

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

Ran into Nelson today. I think I scared the hell out of him. He was cool and pretended he didn’t recognize me. I appreciate that. 

-F

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

From: kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: 

 

Frank,

Thanks for all these.

Miss you,

Karen

 

To: kpage@bulletinnews.com 

From: notthepunisher@yahoo.com

Subject: 

 

Miss you too. 

 

\------

 

_ Frank,  _

_ This week was hard. I‘m not even sure how to put it into words. I wish I could call you. Some days I just want to come home. But I’m not done here yet.  _

_ I miss you. _

_ Karen _

  
  
  


 

_ Karen, _

_ I’m sorry. Keep your head up. You’re the strongest damn person I know. And what you’re doing, it matters. So keep doing it as long as you need to.  _

_ Tell me what I can do to help. Call me when you can. _

_ Frank _

 

\------

 

To: notthepunisher@yahoo.com 

From: kpage@bulletinnews.com

Subject: Something

 

I dug up something big. Possibly coming home soon. It goes deeper than just here.

I’ll be careful, I promise.

Karen 

 

\------

 

Frank doesn’t hear anything after that. 

  
  


A couple weeks go by, and he starts to get worried. At least, he starts to allow himself to realize how worried he is. The time frame isn’t that off, if she’s got something big she could be busy, or offline, or a letter could have been lost. But it’s a feeling in his gut, one he’s come to trust after years at war. He knows she’s in trouble. And he can’t do anything to help her. 

He’s drinking the cold coffee at their place, the one she told him about, when he finally hears more. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of something familiar on the one TV in the place, and looks up to see her picture splayed across the news broadcast. It’s a shot of her at work on the ground - notebook in hand with a helmet and flak jacket to boot. 

“Bulletin reporter killed in action in Syria,” the banner reads. 

He tries to see past the words, tries not to focus on the voice of the anchor, the volume so low it's practically muted but somehow still ringing through his ears. Instead he forces himself to focus on Karen’s face, the look of concentration there, her silent strength and confidence. Because how could she be gone? How could someone so goddamn stubborn and determined be gone? 

He knows how. 

Of course he does. He knows intimately and painfully how someone like that dies - in a string of bullets, in the midst of chaos, in undeserved agony. 

The pain is familiar, and that makes it worse. 

As if things could be worse. 

He stares at that photo of her thousands of miles away, and tries to imagine she’s still right there, her hair pulled back and boots laced up in a street full of rubble, telling the stories of those in pain, trying to get the world to care. Far from him, but not completely out of reach. 

But instead all he can think of is that day after group, in that damn dingy basement. Her hair was down then, and she wasn’t telling anyone’s story, just trying to make changes with her own. He can picture it almost perfectly, the last time he saw her. The last time he’d ever see her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. More to come!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timing note - this is set before DD season 3 and The Punisher season 2. I physically cannot watch the Marvel shows out of order, so I have not seen either one yet. I'm dying. Enjoy.

#  Her fight lives on

**By Mitchell Ellison**

 

_ A search for the truth is what first brought Karen Page into the Bulletin newsroom.  _

_ She found her answers here, and a new home as well. Since then she’s never given up on that quest for the truth, bringing her passion to the pages of our paper.  _

_ This same search led Karen to her death, far from home in a war zone but never straying from her convictions.  _

_ Her first story for this paper asked what it means to be a hero. We know the answer — her. _

  
  


Frank can’t read the rest, not today. The story fills the page - lines and lines of her memory alongside photos of her. Laughing with a cup in her hand surrounded by others at a Christmas party. Interviewing an important-looking man in a suit with a look on her face that is not to be messed with. Smiling at the camera in her press pass photo. All vibrant and very much alive. 

 

\------------

  
  


“Stick around a second, Frank,” Curtis says, as the people around him shuffle out of their chairs and to the door. His request was unnecessary, Frank hadn’t moved. He hadn’t realized the meeting had ended. He’d barely realized it had begun.

 

“You want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” Curtis asks, leaning forward in his chair toward Frank.  

 

It had been three weeks since the news of Karen’s death was first reported, and Curtis hadn’t seen any of Frank in that time.

 

Each individual day had felt like a slow, drawn out march, and yet they accumulated faster than Frank realized. The first were sleepless, filled with efforts to prove the news wrong. Madani had brought him a copy of the official report, the page black with redactions, but the visible words confirming that civilian Karen Page had been killed in an altercation during a patrol. David hacked in to get the uncensored document, but even that didn’t provide much new information, a general location, a time, a date. And it gave him no more reason to doubt, or hope. 

 

He tore through her old letters and emails, searching for any indication about what she may have found. David’s search of the Bulletin servers pulled up nothing but Karen’s published stories. Whatever information she had found, she kept it to herself. 

 

Several nights he woke up to reach for his phone, imagining he heard it ring in his sleep. Other nights he went out, walking the streets, posting up at bars, waiting for fights to pick him. 

 

Last night his bruised hands had grabbed hold of her letters again, gently this time. He reread every word she’d ever written him, letting his eyes linger on the messages she’d crafted. She was still alive in those pages. Reading her words again is what finally brought him back here to Curtis. 

 

“Frank,” Curtis says his name again, louder but without anger, just trying to get his attention. 

 

Frank shakes his head, trying to find words to answer him. 

 

“I should have been there,” he says, finally. “I should have done something.” Frank looks up at his friend briefly, but then his eyes drop back down to the floor. His hands ball into fists in his lap. 

 

“She was across the ocean, doing her job,” Curtis refuses to drop his gaze. “What could you have done?” 

 

“I don’t, I don’t know!” Frank yells, jumping up from the metal folding chair. “Something!” 

 

The chair slams to the ground beside him, and he honestly can’t tell if it was his quick movements or an intentional hand that threw it there. 

 

His hand twitches as he paces a short path behind the chairs left standing in the circle. His mind is moving in time with his feet, searching for something, anything he could have done. The loss, the ache is painfully familiar, but this, this is different. With his family, he should have seen it coming. He could have, should have saved them. It’s easier to find the guilt there. Even now, after his rampage for justice, he still claims that guilt, carries it willingly. Some days it’s almost like a shield from the grief. 

 

But with Karen, Karen, there was nothing he could do. He knows Curtis is right. He wasn’t there. And he sure as hell couldn’t have stopped her from going. He wouldn’t have wanted to, not really, because Karen wouldn’t be Karen if she hadn’t gone. He was helpless, and he hates that. 

 

His feet finally stop moving in front of one of the chairs, and he grips its back with tight fingers. Curtis still watches him from his own seat, silent and unmoving, waiting for Frank to work his way through whatever is playing on his face. Curtis’ own face is calm, his expression open and smooth, following Frank with his eyes.

 

After a few purposeful breaths, Frank sinks into the seat across from his friend. 

 

He breathes in, feeling the motion fill his lungs, body intent on every breath he takes. When he opens his eyes again, he focuses in on the white wall, trying to find something to latch onto in the still blankness of it. But the absence of color is no comfort. Instead he see flashes of color — blue of a silky soft shirt, yellow hair so light it shined, pink chapped lips, red blood— all the brightness of Karen personified. 

 

With another deep breath he lets the flashes of memory take over, if only for a moment. He sees her there, right where she was the last time he saw her. The last time that smile lit up her face and his whole day. Her lips had tugged up then, soft and sweet, pulling at something in his chest. And then they had been so close, so close it would have taken just the smallest movement to close the distance. 

 

He shakes his head, and tears his eyes from the ghost of her in the room. 

 

“You were right,” he tells Curtis. “I should have kissed her.” 

 

Curtis’ soft laugh fills the room with a hint of warmth as he nods — of course he was right.

“Something tells me she knew how you felt. You’ve always had other ways of showing that Frank.” 

 

He believed that. After all, he knew Karen cared about him too. Not because she’d said, although she had, just not in so many words, but because of her actions. He had pushed her away - as far as he possibly could - and yet when he showed up on her doorsteps months later she was still willing to let him in. 

 

He wishes he had done the same for her. But maybe he did, in his way. He let her in. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be able to hurt him like this. 

 

He’s shaken from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps in the hallway heading their way. They’re light and harried, someone trying to run but not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Frank’s fingers twitch as he turns toward the sound, and his hand reaches for a gun that is not there. 

 

Curtis stands and rests a hand on Frank’s shoulder, both comforting and restraining. Frank shakes his head, trying to physically pull himself out of his gut response. Footsteps in a church hall didn’t automatically mean trouble, he has to remind himself. The sound that makes him start could be kids playing or old friends reuniting. He is not always under attack. 

 

He turns away from the hall, and fights every instinct to whip back around when the footsteps come to a stop just inside the meeting room. Curtis’ hand falls from Frank’s shoulder and the shock on his face finally prompts Frank to turn back around. 

 

And there she is. 

 

Karen stands framed by the doorway. She’s paler than he’s ever seen her. Her hair is in a mess of a ponytail, with blonde pieces escaping in a tangle around her face. The dark bags under her eyes mix with the remnants of a bruise on her cheek. She’s standing awkwardly, off balance, like it’s a struggle to keep herself upright. But a small smile creeps up her face as she looks at him. Her eyes lock onto his face, as if trying to reassure herself of his presence, when he’s the one staring at a ghost.  

 

“Frank,” she utters softly. 

 

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He knows better than to wait for another chance. 

 

A few steps is all he needs to cross the room to her. She meets him with a single unsteady step of her own. Then his arms are around her, enveloping her. He pulls her close, taking her weight against him as their foreheads meet. 

 

After a few breaths, Frank pulls back slightly to look at her. He brings a hand up to her face, cupping her cheek as his thumb traces the outline of her bruise. 

 

“Are you okay?” 

 

She nods slowly, eyes never leaving his. “Yeah, I am, I will be.” 

 

For a moment he just stares at her, eyes wide in disbelief as he takes in the sight of her, here and so very much alive. She fits in more now with the bleak surroundings of the basement, but her eyes are still bright as she looks up at him. Finally, finally, he bring his lips to hers. They meet tenderly, soft and tentative, conscious of each other’s wounds, some fresh, some old, some that may never heal. 

 

He has so many questions, and she has so much to ask of him, but for a moment, just a moment, they let the world around them fade away as they melt into each other. 


End file.
